


On the affectionate nature of Veelas, A Study by Harry James Potter

by DavidtheAthenai



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, flowerpot discord drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DavidtheAthenai/pseuds/DavidtheAthenai
Summary: A short tale of love and intimacy, of devotion beyond the physical.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour & Harry Potter, Fleur Delacour/Harry Potter
Kudos: 38
Collections: Flowerpot Garden Collection One





	On the affectionate nature of Veelas, A Study by Harry James Potter

Collab Gang Submission I

**_On the affectionate nature of Veelas, A Study by Harry James Potter_ **

_by DavidtheAthenai_

* * *

* * *

**_A Natura Enim Veela_ **

_A short tale of love and intimacy,_

_of devotion beyond the physical._

* * *

* * *

Veelas are fond of having and creating dens that serve several purposes, from refuge, to comfort, to plain vanity. These dens are unique to each veela and will change slowly to reflect the changes in the life and environment of said veela. Often, the most precious possession of the veela gets positioned at the centre of it, in an unconscious effort to protect it and have it close at all times. There may too be an aspect of prideful display.

This change reflects the possessive nature of veelas, and the importance of demonstrating such ownership in a physical, measurable way that is often not known by either the veela or the object of her affections.

This particular phenomenon is what saw Harry Potter wake up in the very centre of a canopied bed that was, at the same time, in the centre of the moonlit room.

Harry was a light sleeper, something left from the circumstances of his earlier life. He woke easily and quickly to the slightest of sounds, at least when he was alone in bed, as he happened to be now. 

Fleur was not an early riser. Not by any means. They say the early bird gets the worm, but as far as she was concerned, she already had her worm, and there was that.

There was a fair amount of noise in the room, all of it furtive and muffled, the sound of rustling fabrics and the clinking of jewellery against wood, the soft sound of steps on a carpeted floor and the occasional sound of muzzled cursing -as befitting those condemned to an early day- in an adorable patois.

Harry kept to the bed, eyes only half-opened, delighting in all the small sounds Fleur made as she dressed, going this way and that with her light steps, trying not to wake him. It sounded hypnotic to his sleep-addled mind.

Fleur usually did not bother with lights when she was alone, her sensitive eyes doing well enough with the moonlight that streamed through the curtains, so even had he had his glasses he would not have been able to see anything more than a blob of colour, shining very slightly in an almost selenite manner. He, though, liked to imagine -or remember- her as she dressed, trying to match the sounds he heard to a mental image.

Was that the sound of stockings sliding up? The ruffle and shuffle of a skirt being straightened? Surely that was the sound of a bracelet clicking into place.

He was pretty good at this game, having done extensive research into both the clothes she wore and the robing and disrobing habits of this particular subject. 

It was not hard at all for him to imagine how every piece came together, hoping to match the elegance of its wearer, and he took delight in his ruminations.

It's been about a week now of waking in the dark, without Fleur by his side. He did not particularly enjoy it, though it was fair to say that she outright despised it. She loved her job though, and she could suffer this travesty of life for another week for its sake, or so she said.

For him the change was not so great, other than this new game of his, and the amount of light in the room when he woke. There were a few details, here and there, though.

He'd left the coffee maker ready before going to bed so that it would go off when it was time for Fleur to get up. The smell of fresh coffee always drew her from the bed in an almost Pavlovian response, and besides, Fleur was not public worthy before her first pint of the dark, magically mundane brew. 

Normally, it was him who got up first, the sun already shining outside, and made the coffee, it's odour raising Fleur and summoning her to his side in a manner reminiscent of a magnet. They would then proceed to have a first breakfast, consisting of plenty of coffee flavoured kisses over a bed of full-body hugs, warm and soft as only a veela can make them, all of this while a second breakfast of bacon, eggs and bangers cooked in the background.

Fleur would always complain as to the nature and contents of this second breakfast, but her dish would always, invariably, end up empty, so he kept making it.

The sounds around the room stopped, and he opened his eyes, knowing it was time. Veelas are creatures of habit, after all.

His first impression was that he was looking through one of the windows, Fleur's hair giving a light of its own.

He put his hand out in an almost ritual way and found his glasses placed upon them. Donning them he could see that it was not only her hair, but her very skin that radiated in that same inexplicable way, and that her eyes were as colourful in the dark as they were in the full light, though even after five years together, and two sharing a hearth, he couldn't say accurately which colour they were.

She presented the brush and he took her whole hand and pulled her to the bed, feasting on their first breakfast, for what was the point of brushing a hair that was already perfect? 

Oh, she complained between kisses, of course. About wrinkles and lateness, about her hair being a mess, but still she kissed back, still she moulded to him instead of pushing away, still her glow grew when he ran his fingers through her hair and down her back.

Alas, in the manner of all good things, it had to end eventually. And eventually is always too soon for their care.

“Come, my little sliver of Moon, sit with me,” he’d say, as he always did, and Fleur would crawl to the edge of the bed with a sigh, sitting with her legs over it so that Harry could sit behind her, their legs pressed against each other. She would lean against his chest and look back with her eyes closed for a last lingering kiss before they began.

He groped in the bed for the comb she had dropped when he had so villainously attacked her and found it near the pillows. It was the one he had given her the year before, he saw. A very pretty, pearly thing of ivory that glowed as she did herself when the light hit it, It was the reason he had bought it, in fact. 

He had given her a different comb on each of their anniversaries, informal as they were since they were not married, a fact that had horrified both Mrs Weasley and Mrs Delacour alike. They had eventually gotten over it and even gotten to know each other better in their declamation of Harry and Fleur's sinful ways.

Fleur seemed awfully entertained by her mother’s behaviour at the time, so he couldn’t say it was not all a plan hatched by his beloved to get both women in some form of acquaintanceship. She is devious like that.

He gathered all her hair in one hand, his fingers caressing her neck lightly in the process. Her hair always looked more silver than blonde in the dark, as you could not really see it's colour but the light that waved and shifted through it, like strands of moonlight.

Harry then put the teeth of the comb on her crown. Were it any other person, he would say the crown of her head, but with Fleur, whose hair always carried that metallic sheen, he could not think of it but as an actual crown. 

His hand glided down, making the comb scrap lightly against her scalp. It hummed. And so did she.

The first year of their relationship had been honestly baffling. You can't tell a Veela by sight after all, unless you are paying attention -something he admittedly rarely does- and as they share, for the most part, the culture of their human parent, it is hard to think of them as anything other than human. Beautiful humans, but human nevertheless.

Oh, man. How wrong would you be.

He loved her quirks, though, and the way she hummed when he scratched her head made him feel so warm and fuzzy that it was ridiculous. He would sometimes think about it during the day -particularly when he heard the rumble of the moving stairs at Hogwarts, which sounded very similar when they started to move- and he would smile like a loon. Or blush furiously, depending on which memory the sound conjured.

The comb glided with a smoothness that marked a hair that would never need the treatment he was giving it. The last foot of hair, always delicately curled, straightened under the comb and then bounced back into place. Harry's lips could not help but bend under the weight of such an adorable sight.

Adorable, yes. And how he adores her.

The comb continued to slide through the incomparable softness of a river of silver and gold, eliciting sighs and hums while it caressed, moans and sweet, foreign words while it scrapped. 

Fleur's hair may be the epitome of perfection, and need nothing to keep that epithet, but this was something they both needed. 

There was an absolute focus on each other during these shared moments, the world narrowed until there was nothing else. Nothing but the sweet sounds that emanated from the curve of a neck fair as Australian sand, the sparkle and lustre of hair that shamed rocks and jewels people called ‘precious’ without having any idea what the word means, a blush of rose petal exquisiteness that rose in shoulders that defied any description the clumsy words of a duelling master could come up with. 

To love a veela- to be loved by a veela… People think of magic, of charms, of thralls and slaves. People are fucking idiots.

Veelas are made of their emotions. They are anger made fire, they are happiness made light, they are friendship made warmth, they are love made magic. 

To feel the song of her heart, the declamations of her soul on his skin as well as she felt his hands, strong and agile, honed by a knowledge of her that went beyond the conscious, that went even beyond the idea of knowledge itself, to the grounds of something so primordial that words failed, that senses married… How to explain such a depth of feeling to someone that was as impaired to it as a sightless man is to the magnificence of the sun?

For infinite minutes nothing existed. Everything did. And everything was them.

A hundred strokes of ivory that was as dim as charcoal next to her and no one would have mistaken Fleur Delacour for a mere human. She reclined into him and slid her long hair to her front, and comb discarded he used his fingers. After a few seconds he stopped, and his hands settled on her belly, warm as a dragon’s. And he’d know about that.]

And it was not only her belly that held such warmth, it was her as a whole. Holding her was like holding a star fallen into a world too dim to contain her. Her body relaxed to the point that it contoured into his and the humm that came from deep inside of her reverberated in his own chest. He held her close and she wriggled further into him, and he revelled, oh he revelled in her warmth and her weight, and the curtain of her hair as it covered them both.

“You have to go, love.”

“Mmhmm,” she expressed in her eloquent sleepiness and turned to her side, burrowing her nose into his chest. He, naturally, obliged and scratched her head, “I can afford to be five minutes late.”

“You mean later than normal?”

“Hush,” she bopped his chest, “They’ll forget I’m in charge if I always go in early like the rest of them.”

“You are a terrible boss,” he said with a laugh.

“You ‘aven’t quit, yet.”

“Never,” he kissed the top of her head and she crooned. “Come on, I know you love the work. You always come home gushing about some ancient enchanted Mongol chamberpot or some such.”

Her crooning turned into a cackle with the suddenness of her laughter, “It was ancient chamber pottery, mon petit coquin, and you know it very well,” she shifted so that her face was towards him, “And I do love it. I just ‘ate that it's so far. That I ‘ave to wake up so early and it cuts into my time with you, and that I can’t just apparate to you when I need you. I mean, I could-”

“Don’t you even think about making an illegal portkey again,” he tightened his hold on her, “Last time we had to pay a hefty fine, and were in the papers for weeks after. Not even saying anything about scaring the shite out of my class.”

She pouted. Gods she pouted and so he had to kiss those lips and feel them turn into a smile against his.

“ ‘Ow was I supposed to know that ‘Ogwarts wards would shift the Portkey path?”

“That’s your defence?” She nodded with big innocent eyes that made him think little Gabby took more after her sister than she let on, “I can’t believe they did not jail you.” That's a lie, those eyes could bend steel to her will, what was a poor man suddenly judging something like the creation of an illegal portkey from Mongolia to ‘her ‘usband’ against her charm.

“I missed you,” she said simply, a delicate finger drawing shapes on his arm.

“I know,” he whispered, “I missed you too.”

They stayed embraced, savouring their time together until an alarm bell chimed softly, and they both sighed.

“It’s just one more week,” he encouraged.

“Je sais,” she got up, her body brushing his in reluctance and her fingers tracing his arm until they got to his hand, their eyes locked together the whole time. 

Her fingers brushed his palm, and his hers until they were an arm's length from each other, he sitting and she standing, the tips of their fingers barely touching, until they weren’t, and she was gone in a rustle of fabrics and displaced air.

He sighed and let his arm drop to his side.

Yes, a relationship with a veela is made up of extremes, in a way that some people look down on, as they saw it as an unhealthy dependency. But would they not mourn the loss of an arm, even were it temporary? Harry knew they would, he’d seen it enough times. Even been through it once, in a way, now that he remembered.

Fleur is a part of him, as much as an arm or a leg. Such is the nature of love given form.

And maybe they had their share of dependency, something he attributed to the pain and separation of the war, to all that time when he bled from a wound that he could not find, not knowing if his heart was still beating, or had stopped somewhere without his knowledge. With him fighting for everyone and not being able to protect the one that mattered the most to him, someone that should by all rights be a thousand miles from that conflict. 

So yes, you could say that Harry and Fleur disliked being apart. You could also say that there was more water in the Atlantic than in the glass on his nightstand. 

But such is the nature of a veela’s affection, and he would always feel a bit less when she was not by his side.

His bonny French rose.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> Hello, readers. I am back, in a way. This little piece is the result of a collab effort born in a Flowerpot Discord server that I was invited to by the user x102reddragon. It consists on a community led collection of drabbles and one shots of varying themes and moods, sharing only that which is the core of our server. They are Flowerpot (Harry/Fleur). 
> 
> This is my submission to the collection, a lot more by other authors are going to be posted the following days, and likely have been posted already on the days before, so go check that out on the link I’ll put at the bottom and on my profile.
> 
> This collection is meant to serve as a way to showcase the server, its authors and its betas. The purpose of the server is, in general, to promote the Harry/Fleur ship in any way it can, we have a lot of writers, beta readers on hand for any writer that needs them, fan art spaces and the best collection of prompts I have seen for the ship. Everyone is welcome, even if you don’t feel like throwing in to write a story.
> 
> It’s a very active place, though, and if you like my main story A Court of Flowers, you can always interact there with me. We have a lot of other authors, amongst them:
> 
> gomez36000 of Hope and Healing  
> Ajax of A Different Kind of War  
> maybemayba of A Beautiful Lie  
> Salient Causality of Harry Potter and the International Triwizard Tournament
> 
> An invite link will be posted both in the bottom of this doc and on my profile. Come, join us. I can guarantee you’ll enjoy the experience.
> 
> Invite to the Discord Server: https://discord.gg/gAeb9nS  
> Links to the collection on FFN: https://www.fanfiction.net/community/Flowerpot-Garden-1/133114/


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